Be warned, this story is a hard "R" rated story. It contains (in order of prevalence) violence, sex, and swearing. All of my Nuada stories assume that Nuala did not suicide, and Nuada and the Golden Army made war upon men. Consider it about 50 years post-Hellboy 2.

This is a companion-piece to a very graphic Nuada story called "Fear Me". If "Fear Her", is about war, "Fear Me" is about sex.


At the feast of Samhain, the King of the High Fae was walking by the banks of the River Unius when he saw a warrior woman cleaning her bloody sword and lance. It was the Morrigan, the goddess of war, who could assume the guise of a raven and who watched over the battlefield, turning the tide of war toward that of the Champion she favored.

Black-haired, whip-tongued Morrigan was charmed by the young King with his hair like spun gold and gentle ways. They made love by the river, and hunted fallow deer in the forest. In time she bore him twins, both as pale and beautiful as himself, but their time together had already run short. The world of the Fae was then as peaceful as the surface of calm water, and the black goddess' only dominion was war.

Morrigan was indeed a fickle mistress whose favor was as easily lost as won, but she left the King with a prophecy: The world of the Fae will turn over in blood and iron and dispair. The Unseen will rally under the banner of a new Champion, and a pale lady, the Tactician, will be his right hand.

-Second book of Tuatha De, lost Elvish text


The battle was won already when Liodain was permitted out onto the field. The warriors went ahead to camp while the young men and herself fanned out over the sea of human bodies. Her sword was quickly coated in sticky black blood from dispatching still-living enemy combatants. Their own kind never lingered long.

As the night drug on the smell increased exponentially. Most of the pages quit in disgust, heading off towards the distant camp where the warriors were most likely already asleep, spent from more than a day of hard combat. Finally, as the sun rose, she was alone.

Liodain stripped off her gloves, knee deep in the dead, pulling sweaty hair away from her neck. She had been awake at dawn when the first soldiers washed their faces in the stream and pulled on cold silver armor, muttering prayers to the old gods almost lost-but she would not quit the field until the task was completed.

No one had expected this engagement would end so soon, but needless to say they were pleased. Humans had been massing in what had once been Roscommon county, south of Bethmoora, preparing to strike at the heart of the Unseen. Silverlance had come back from across the island to lead the army personally. A brilliant tactician and unparalleled warrior, his presence had rallied the tired men, and the battle had ended in resounding success.

Liodain's joy was muted by fatigue that seemed to seep into her very bones. Her armor weighed her down, her helmet restricted her vision, but she did not remove them. A soldier was never unarmored on the battlefield.

She had ended at least a hundred suffering men-once terrifying, now deserving of only pity, made low by the might of the risen Unseen armies-when the humans fell on her.

She heard them before she saw them, thundering through the trees like boars, but there was no time for anything but to draw her second sword. Liodain's sight was superior and she was quicker than them, sliding under their blows, adrenaline flooding her heavy limbs, fear sharpening her tired mind.

There were at least ten of them. Their rusty blades cut deeply into her flesh but she didn't feel the white-hot tang of iron. Her own swords tasted plenty of human blood, her pulse deafening in her own ears.

These men were unmistakably advance scouts. The moment she saw them everything became clear. They'd thrown some portion of their army at the Unseen-just enough to seem plausible, to tire them-so that when the burning sun rose and they were in their beds…

A black-haired human put a few rounds from a battered service revolver into her before she cut him down, ending their clumsy surprise attack. Standing over him, rust-colored blood running in rivulets from iron-tinged wounds, she promised him a quick death for confirmation of her theory.

"You'll die before you can warn your army, stupid bitch." He said, before she ended him as she'd ended so many of his comrades that night.

The rising sun prickled at the back of her exposed neck, burning the portions of her back that were uncovered by armor. Liodain sheathed short-swords made slick with her own blood and that of her enemies. Then, already feeling darkness and silence grasping at her, she ran.


Like most, she had been motherless: delicate elven women were not well-suited to the world of men. The chemical-ridden food and the acrid, smoky air and the polluted water ruined most of them before they were even grown. Liodain's mother was only a girl herself when she'd birthed her, and succumbed soon after. Her father followed shortly, destroyed by grief.

For years she scavenged, picking through the enormous piles of garbage the world of men left in its wake and stealing what she couldn't find in refuse. When she was old enough, she did odd jobs for trolls and other denizens of the underworld-cooking, cleaning, caring for children.

When the Golden Army was summoned from their long sleep, she was barely grown. Liodain knew nothing of war, but quickly joined the rising tide of resistance. Even the court of the now-deceased King Balor fell into step behind the fearless Nuada. The elves and their kin rose as one to burn the earth clean.

Long years passed. She moved between camps, catching instruction when she could, caring for the wounded, burning the dead. Elven women were not warriors as they once had been. Considered too precious to waste on the battlefield, Liodain was treated with a mixture of caution and disdain. Sometimes a sympathetic soldier would teach her some of the old art, but mostly she contented herself with the work of the pages: dressing wounds, repairing armor, dispatching the lingering humans on the field after a battle.


Liodain got a hand under her breastplate, putting pressure on a wound her armor hadn't saved her from. She concentrated on the rhythmic pounding of her feet on the soft earth. The sun was almost blinding. Sweat stung her eyes. And yet, ahead, the white tents of the camp were just visible on the edge of the woods.

Iron sung through her veins, turning gold-colored blood brown and sticky before it even fell from her body. Her vision was starting to dim, but somehow her legs continued to pump, her feet moving her to the command tents.

One structure was larger than the others, closest to the woods. She had never before even dreamt of approaching it-inside, Silverlance slumbered-but if she didn't alert him their revolution was dead.

"Sire! Sire!" She said finally, her voice breaking. The roaring in her ears was threatening to overtake her. One leg buckled, then the other, and she went down on her knees. Agonizing moments passed, while her life leaked out onto the ground that had drank so much of their blood already.

Finally, the tent flap moved, and Prince Nuada himself emerged. Time seemed to slow. His white-gold hair was loose, flowing past his bare shoulders. He was wearing only linen trousers, and myriad scars stood out on his pale chest and broad shoulders. Eyes the color of Baltic amber settled on her, and he was in motion.

"My Liege." She gasped, pulling her heavy helmet off.

Silverlance was instantly at her side, one cold hand closing around her wrist. The world shifted suddenly, and she was in his arms. He smelled like dry leaves and night.

"A second army. Larger. Moving toward us from the west. This battle-a trap. They hope to overtake us while we sleep. Caught a scouting party on the field." Liodain said.

With every breath she was misting him with blood. Some landed on his face but he made no movement to wipe it away.

The Prince's eyes flickered over her, his breath coming quick through parted lips. Then he turned to the generals who were just now coming to his side, speaking rapidly in the old tongue, and she saw no more.